Redemption
by oconnellaboo
Summary: He was always going to make it up to them... and he always seemed to fail.  Walter Bishop's life, curveballs and all.  I don't own it/them/any of it. Thanks to SuperBeta, DixieGirl256. Based on a Jeff Pinkner comment on "Os," from the Blu-Ray.


**REDEMPTION**

Redemption, for Walter Bishop, was a moving target.

When he was a young man, the world was his – a ripe, succulent fruit there for the picking. Walter reveled in all things sensual, whether it was the rich, heady smell of whatever new marijuana hybrid he'd developed, or the feel of a pretty girl's breast, heavy with desire in his palm.

Walter was an expert on the female anatomy; biology was actually his favorite subject in school, despite excelling in chemistry. And Lord knows he'd had enough willing subjects for examination; at over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, thick curling hair, and piercing gray-blue eyes, he was a far cry from the science nerds he came into contact every day.

He had always wanted to learn the piano; his mother told him he had a pianist's hands, but he never got around to the lessons. No matter, though – he used those long, slender fingers to create new compounds, map uncharted territories in science – and oh, yes, drive girls wild. To him, the sound of a girl climaxing was as sweet as any piano etude.

Not that he let romance get in the way of his ambition. If a girl got too serious, that was the end. Walter Bishop was not going to settle for the hum-drum life of an academic, frittering away his days in some musty classroom trying to enlighten the minds of Luddites merely looking for enough credits to make their parents happy. No, for Walter, the sky was the limit – he would settle for no less than changing the world. He wanted to be responsible for discoveries or creations so earth-shattering, his name would eclipse the greatest in the pantheon of science. Einstein? He was fine, but he was no Walter Bishop.

He married Elizabeth McKenna six months after meeting her at a neurobiology conference in Berlin. His partner, William Bell, had mentioned her briefly as one of his conquests at a previous gathering in her native Dublin. "A real firecracker, Walter. One of the best I ever had. And brilliant, too." Bellie introduced them at the conference, and Walter was immediately taken with the slim Irish beauty with the steady but intense gaze and wild mane of hair. They slept together the night they met, and the night after that. They went on their first date a week later, got engaged three months later, and three months after that, they were Dr. and Mrs. Walter Bishop – although Elizabeth still demanded to be called Dr. McKenna in business settings. Walter rarely remembered.

Elizabeth had wanted to have children right away; Walter agreed, figuring it would keep her out of his and Bellie's lab. Elizabeth was always so… _human_ about their work, asking if it was ethical to perform tests on people who had no idea they were being experimented upon. "They signed up for it, dear," he'd say matter-of-factly, knowing it as a bald-faced lie; whatever it was these poor dopes thought they'd signed up for, it certainly wasn't a day in Bellie and Bishop's lab.

They had no luck getting pregnant for years, and Elizabeth started hinting to Walter that it was his fault, because of his previous – and current – drug use. Walter didn't believe it.

Two miscarriages and countless arguments later, Elizabeth finally got pregnant; it was the longest nine months of Walter's life, filled with tears, and trips to the emergency room because Elizabeth was spotting, or she had a headache, and she was sure there was something wrong with the baby. By the third trimester, Walter was regretting that they'd ever succeeded in getting pregnant.

And then he met his son. Walter surprised everyone, including himself, by rushing to the hospital as soon as he heard Elizabeth was in labor. He was grateful that he'd only smoked three joints that afternoon; it wouldn't do to drop his newborn child in a blissed-out stoner haze. As the nurse placed the warm, swaddled bundle in his arms, Elizabeth said to him, "I thought we might call him Peter, after my grandfather."

"The musician?" Walter asked absent-mindedly as he stared at the pink-faced creature in his arms.

"No, that's my Uncle Finbar. My grandfather was a magician." Elizabeth smiled wistfully at memories of card tricks and pennies emerging from her ear.

"A magician? How… _egalitarian_," Walter smirked.

"Oh, go on with ya now, don't be such a snob. I know for a fact you know at least one coin trick."

"I do, indeed," Walter grinned at her, then at his son. "And I'm going to teach it to you," he said, playfully touching the baby's tiny nose. "When you're actually bigger than a coin yourself, of course. Would you like that, _Peter_?"

Walter gasped in surprise when the baby's eyes opened; they were wide, and clear blue, and pinned Walter to the spot where he stood. "Liza, he's looking at me. I swear he's looking at me."

"He's four hours old, Walter, don't be silly," Elizabeth said gently.

Mesmerized, Walter stared back at the child. Baby Peter seemed to be staring into Walter's very soul, and Walter found himself suddenly frightened – and a bit ashamed. If the boy could see into his soul, what would he find there? At that very moment, Walter pledged to be a better man, one Peter could always look in the eye, and say, "You're my dad," with pride.

Any research he did, he decided, would be for the betterment of mankind. He would leave a better world for this wide-eyed, already clearly brilliant boy; it wouldn't be about publishing and prizes and money, as Bellie had decided for them it would be. He promised he would make up for the time had spent so selfishly these past years. Walter Bishop was going to redeem himself in his son's eyes.

Walter took Elizabeth and baby Peter Albert Bishop home, and promptly forgot his pledge; six years later, when Peter started bruising and running a chronic fever, he suddenly remembered it.

He loved the boy with all his heart, and Peter seemed to have a particular devotion to him as well. He was a smart, inquisitive child, if a bit reserved; he always seemed to be watching, rather than participating. Walter sometimes suspected the child was merely biding his time, waiting to step in and fix whatever mistake his loopy, likely stoned father might make. Walter had no doubt that even at that young age, he probably could. The child was eerily bright.

Walter devoted himself day and night to finding a cure for Peter's ailment, since the useless doctors had no idea what it was that was slowly killing his boy from the inside out. Elizabeth barely saw him anymore, and Peter saw him even less. "He's been practicing that coin trick for weeks, Walter, and all he wants is to show his dad how well he's doing with it," she scolded him one early morning.

"He'll have all the time in the world to show me, as soon as he's well," Walter replied, grabbing his coat as he headed for the door.

"You've been saying that for how long, now? You were home for not even an hour on his birthday," she yelled at him as he turned the knob. "His nose bled for two hours yesterday, Walter."

Walter turned. "Did you take him to the hospital?" he asked nervously.

"Of course not, you said not to," she retorted. "'Don't worry, Mom, it's okay, Dad'll know what's going on soon,' he kept telling me. His almighty Dad, who'll fix everything – you're like God to him." She laughed bitterly. "I suppose that's fitting, considering he doesn't see _you_, either."

"I don't have time for your self-pity, Elizabeth. I have to get to work." Walter left Elizabeth standing in the living room, raking a hand nervously through her hair.

Outside, as he approached the car, he heard her yell, "Peter, stop!"

Turning, he saw a small blur in a blue plaid bathrobe running after him. "Peter, what are you doing? Go back inside this instant, or you'll catch your death," Walter admonished him.

"But… but, Dad…" the boy said breathlessly. "I finally did it! Dontcha wanna see?" Shivering in his worn flannel robe, Peter pulled a coin from his pocket with his left hand, and in a flash, had it dancing between his fingers. "Isn't it cool, Dad?" he asked, his eyes shining up at Walter with both hope and fever. "I can even… I can do it…"

Walter caught Peter before the boy slumped to the ground, and scooped him into his arms. "Shh," he whispered into the whimpering child's ear, "I've got you. Well done, son. Well done."

"Don't you have to go to work?" Elizabeth asked testily as Walter laid Peter back in his bed and added an extra comforter to his bedclothes.

"I think Carla can live without me for one day," Walter said softly, stroking Peter's damp hair. "You're right, Liza. I haven't been here nearly enough." He looked at her pleadingly. "I'm sorry."

"Ya mean it?" Peter mumbled, pinning his father with a sleepy, but intense, gaze. "You're gonna be home more?"

"Absolutely, I mean it," Walter smiled. "We have to work on your being able to do that trick with both hands. Ambidexterity is the sign of a brilliant mind, you know."

"Is not," Peter argued, drifting off to sleep.

Walter and Elizabeth laughed. "He gets that from you, you know," Walter said.

"Most likely," Elizabeth agreed, gracing him with a rare smile.

Walter rose from the bed and took Elizabeth's hands in his. "I'm not going to stop looking for a cure, but I promise you, I will be here more for you. I'll make it up to you. Both of you."

Two weeks later, Peter Bishop died in his father's arms, and Walter didn't keep his promise.

Many years, and many broken promises later, Walter Bishop found himself looking into the eyes of his _other_ Peter across a room at St. Claire's hospital. He worried about this Peter; he had brought him to this universe to cure him, but was unable – and, after awhile, unwilling – to send him home. However, he had always thought that he'd have a chance to make amends for that. The boy would ultimately be happier here, well and well-loved. He had such plans for him. They would be a family.

But this Peter, while just as frighteningly intelligent, was angry. His inquisitive nature went hand-in-hand with a distrust that was disturbing to Walter in someone so young. Walter refused to acknowledge his part in the boy's suspicious nature, chalking it up to side effects of the curative drug he'd administered. It would wear off, and he'd make it all up to Peter. Then came the Cortexiphan trials, and the fire, and more drugs, and the madness, and Elizabeth's suicide, and Walter – yet again – failed at his latest shot at redemption.

Walter had pretty much given up on any chance of redemption with this angry young stranger who had signed him out of St. Claire's, and the two men butted heads at regular intervals. Walter chided Peter on his chosen, "career path," while Peter had matured into a perpetual sarcasm machine, with Walter his favorite target.

But a strange thing happened amidst the slings and arrows; Walter suddenly found red vines on his desk at the lab from time to time, and their daily breakfast at the diner didn't necessitate an antacid – or something stronger - afterward anymore. A grudging peace had broken out through the bitterness and recrimination, but Walter was terrified to hope for anything more. His chances at salvation had past; all he could do was cherish any moments he could get with this son who wasn't his.

He found himself in one of those moments as he put away the crepe pan he had just washed. It had been a particularly difficult case; a young boy had taken a drug that had given him the power of mind control, and had kidnapped Peter. Walter had been petrified, recalling that previous victims had sustained massive brain damage from the boy's control, but Peter had been saved by a combination of Walter's ingenuity, and his own quick thinking. Of course, Peter probably didn't think himself all that bright as his head and ribcage collided with the steering wheel when he deliberately crashed Walter's ancient car.

Walter knew perfectly well that crepes wouldn't cure, or even alleviate the pain of, Peter's cracked ribs and concussion, but he had to do something. All he could think of was cooking.

He heard a soft groan from the living room, and rushed in to see Peter easing himself stiffly onto the sofa. "Are you all right, son?" he asked.

Gritting his teeth, Peter nodded. "Yeah, fine, thanks. The painkillers they gave me at the hospital are just wearing off." He shifted uncomfortably.

"I filled your prescription on the way home. I'll get you a pill right now." Walter turned to go back to the kitchen.

"No, it's okay, Walter. I don't want 'em, to be honest. They make me way too… " He waved his hand in the air in a Walteresque gesture that made the older man laugh.

"Stoned? How ironic," Walter said mirthfully.

Peter laughed, wincing and holding his arm against his ribs. "Yeah, so it is," he chuckled. He patted the seat next to him on the couch. "C'mon, Walter, light somewhere, will ya?" You're making me dizzy with your Whirling Dervish impression."

Walter sat down next to Peter as he took the TV remote and turned the set on. "I can probably catch the last few innings of the game."

"Baseball? I didn't know you like baseball!" Walter said excitedly.

"Are you kidding me? Baseball is _life_, Walter. It's poetry. It's – "

"The thinking man's game," they said in unison.

Walter smiled wistfully. "You know, Bellie and I once had a discussion about curveballs over a rather wonderful blend we'd put together."

"Walter… " Peter warned, trying to concentrate on the game.

"It started after I read the most fascinating article. The basic premise was that the human visual system perceives motion differently in the foveal and peripheral areas of the eye. Peripheral vision particularly can confuse rotational and translational motion."

"Walter… " Peter groaned again.

"It can be argued that this perceived distortion may very well contribute to a batter's perception that a breaking pitch suddenly changes direction as it approaches home plate. However, it could also… "

"My head hurts," Peter muttered.

"Oh, dear!" Walter exclaimed. "What's wrong? Should I call Astrid? Or Olivia? Maybe an ambulance?"

"No!" Peter yelped, wincing at his own voice. "You're just… if I didn't have a headache before… "

"Oh," Walter said, sitting back. "I'm sorry," he said softly, lowering his head.

Peter sighed. Walter had been doing so well lately that he sometimes forgot how fragile his father could still be. "Well, you _could_ make it up to me," he said gently.

Walter lifted his head, and there it was: the steady blue-gray gaze that seemed to look straight through to his soul. "How?"

"Couple of pills from your secret Ibuprofen stash, and a bag of microwave popcorn?" Peter grinned.

Walter beamed back at him and rose. "I can do that," he chortled, and strode to the kitchen. Unexpected tears rose in his eyes as he opened the cabinet. "Small thing to do for redemption."


End file.
